


To The Top

by AlkalineChatter



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Feels, Fluff and Angst, No mustache on Roy, Politics, Post-Canon, Riza has long hair okay, Royai - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:20:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26408629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlkalineChatter/pseuds/AlkalineChatter
Summary: Making it to the top is no easy feat. This story follows Mustang and Hawkeye after the Promised Day and how they navigate in the political arena of Amestris. T-rated stuff with election plot.I've created an outline (I expect around ~20 chapters) and I hate incomplete works, so I promise this will get regular updates. I'd be happy to have a beta so if you feel up to it, please DM me!
Relationships: Riza Hawkeye & Roy Mustang, Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 17
Kudos: 23





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Many Royai fanfics assume that Roy and Riza don't talk to each other and yet they somehow know where their relationship is going. That's not how real life works, so this chapter/prologue is my take at showing how they discuss their relationship. You'll see some of my headcanon in this prologue already - this will be elaborated and fleshed out in later chapters! 
> 
> The two Royai works that guide me are 1) Lady Norbert's Shadowlight which is 100% my headcanon, and 2) lastwagontrainhopper's The weight of the crown which helped me get the feel of politics!Royai. Make sure you check 'em out if you haven't already. :)
> 
> Hope you'll enjoy the wild ride!

“What now, then?”

They sit in the kitchen of Mustang’s surprisingly humble apartment in Central. He sips whiskey without ice; hers is with possibly too much ice. Her throat is still covered by bandages but she has been discharged from the hospital just in time to make it to the alchemic operation that healed Havoc and restored Mustang’s eyesight. The beer tasted wonderful that night as the team celebrated together. They probably had altogether too much.

“As I understand, you intend to go to Ishval.” Hawkeye says this with the kind of certainty in her voice that Mustang knows all too well. She appreciates clarity, though, so she adds, “And will be by your side.”

They look at each other fondly. Mustang gives her long looks nowadays, as if he was cataloging every detail of her body in case he lost his vision again.

“I will need you.” The _will_ is an entirely useless word in this sentence, he knows. “I will need you as my Lieutenant, too. But…” He stares into his drink, his expression frustrated. “I meant what I said down there in those damn tunnels. I can’t afford to lose you. And I almost did. You were so close to…” He chokes on the words, then continues, “I don’t know if I can keep this up. I know that our focus has been the good of this country but life is fleeting and after this, I can’t go on pretending you’re not the most important in my life.”

Hawkeye’s hand brushes over his fingers reassuringly. Mustang tears his gaze away from his drink to look at her. She smiles again – it’s a small smile, her wide grins are extremely rare, but it reaches her eyes, and Mustang can’t help but grin back.

“I know,” she responds pensively. “The … recent events have shuffled my priorities too. But Ishval is dangerous. Your mission there, _our_ mission, won’t be a walk in the park. People will loathe us – and for a good reason. They won’t necessarily cooperate. And especially after the tunnels, I must watch your back. You’ll need trustworthy eyes to cover you if someone attempts an assassination on you or if the local resistance acts up.” She looks at him directly, and while her eyes are serious, her voice softens and she speaks very serenely. “I can’t afford to lose you either. I never could. This is exactly why I intend to follow you still.”

Her hands are still on his fingers, and he now wraps them around her hand and squeezes strongly. His throat is tight from the raw emotion he feels. Every time they discuss the terms of their strange relationship, he is overwhelmed by _her_. Hawkeye’s love for him is so unlike what he knows about love, what he heard from Hughes, friends, or from Madame Christmas and her girls. No – Hawkeye’s love is some sort of unyielding devotion and even after all these years he still struggles to accept it. Now, again, he is torn between wanting to weep, propose to her, or just kiss her senselessly. She notices how he can’t talk from the lump in his throat and she laughs a little. Perhaps she laughs at him, but it makes him so happy.

“I told you I’d need a First Lady when I’m the President,” he says. He knows that talking about his career ambitions is her weak spot, and it works again. Her eyes shine proudly.

“And when that happens, I will be next to you,” she nods. “You’ll have the First Lady you want.”

“I want you,” Mustang adds unnecessarily, but it feels so damn good to say it. And to see the effect his words have on her. She blushes slightly, and her smile widens. Mustang could swear her gaze flew to his lips for a second, and he feels giddy again. They survived this mess, she is in his kitchen, and he gets to flirt with her. Life is truly better than what he deserves.

Other than her obvious pleasure at his words, she doesn’t respond, so Mustang continues.

“I _want_ you.” Her blush deepens at his hungry tone. “I know you’re concerned about my safety, but I’m wondering if, with these alchemic terrors gone, we could perhaps meet more often.”

“Hmm.” Mustang knows he has brought up a difficult subject, but it’s important. The fraternization rules clearly outlaw their relationship but, contrary to popular belief, Hawkeye and Mustang did manage to spend a couple of illicit nights with each other over the years. Her only worries were his plans and safety; his only worries were being court martialed or bringing shame on her. Compared to their crimes in Ishval, having sex when it’s against the rules has always seemed trivial. But Mustang wants more and he knows that so does she. “I’d like to see the circumstances of where we get stationed first. You’ll have less attention on yourself once you’re not in Central but you also need to have an impeccable record if you want to make it to the top. I’m … concerned. But I’d like more private moments with you too.”

“I can assure you that I will find a way,” Mustang says and flashes his cocky grin at her.

“Very well.” Her words are simple but her tone is amused and there is just a tiny hint of purr in it. Mustang takes it as an opening, finishes his drink and puts his hands on her knees.

“Can I kiss you now?” Everything is so complicated with them so they always ask each other first. Hawkeye smirks, picks up her glass and drinks its content, slowly savoring the alcohol, the remaining ice cubes color her lips. Mustang follows her every move with the eyes of a hungry predator.

Then she puts down the glass and leans forward to kiss him.


	2. Ch.1: The First Inauguration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up: I'm uncomfortable with using the word Führer because, well, IRL history yannow?, so in my story it is consistently replaced with president. King Bradley is - or was - President Bradley, too. I hope that's not too much of a bump! 
> 
> Hope you'll like the update and I'd be super happy to hear from you! ;w;

Soon, the inauguration’s date was released. The leadership wanted to avoid further chaos in Amestris so Grumman’s leadership was established quickly and the inauguration was scheduled at the earliest possible date. They kept it simple; it was organized in the classiest concert hall of Central with broadcast speeches about the Promised Day, the lost lives, the achievements of President Bradley and Lieutenant General Grumman. Then Grumman himself would give his first speech, a classical music concert would follow, and select military personnel were invited to a small reception after. The leadership didn’t want to risk the presence of the press.

The dress code was formal, not the official uniform. This currently frustrates both Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye and Major General Olivier Mira Armstrong as neither woman enjoys the idea of wearing a dress at a work-related event – or, in the case of the Major General, possibly ever. Hawkeye salutes her as they both enter the female bathroom prior to the event. Armstrong waves her hand dismissively and gives her an approving look.

“I was disappointed by our colleagues as most of them came unarmed, but I’m pleased to see you remain a reliable soldier as always, Lieutenant Hawkeye,” she says. Hawkeye doesn’t show her surprise at the fact that Olivier Mira Armstrong can apparently see through her long, unrevealing black dress and notice the guns secured underneath. The Major General didn’t bother hiding her blade.

“Thank you, Major General,” Hawkeye nods. “I wish you a pleasant evening.”

Armstrong snorts as if the mere idea was laughable, and nods back at the Lieutenant as she leaves. Once Hawkeye is out, she scans the entrance hall for Colonel Mustang who, unsurprisingly, arrives at the last minute. His formal suit is accompanied with his white alchemist gloves; Hawkeye is secretly proud that Major General Armstrong wouldn’t be able to criticize her commanding officer for coming unarmed.

“Colonel Mustang,” she greets him with her usual formal expression.

“Ah, hello Lieutenant,” Mustang responds nonchalantly. His eyes darken as he notices her bandages around her throat – he didn’t need a reminder of that moment – but Hawkeye can tell he is also curious to take in the unusual sight of his Lieutenant without the blue uniform. “Do you happen to know where we are seated? I may have forgotten my invitation at home.”

“Yes, sir,” Hawkeye responds. She knows all too well that he is pretending just so they can continue to have a conversation, however shallow. “Feel free to engage with your colleagues before the event starts; I’ll be at Door A over there and will walk you to our seats when you’re ready, sir.” Seems like Mustang needed her reminder to network with his colleagues, because his eyes now leave her face and glance over the room instead. Hawkeye walks to the Door A and watches him as he starts to mingle. He does look very dashing in that suit.

Mustang returns to her at the first musical signal that urges the audience to take their seats. “May I?” He asks, offering her his arm. It’s theatrical, really, but to Hawkeye it still feels gentlemanly somehow.

“You may remember where you are seated next time, Colonel,” she responds. Her tone is masterfully cool with just enough color in it that Mustang can detect her amusement. They walk to their seats and sit.

“You’ll be pleased to know, sir,” she says neutrally, “that Master Sergeant Fuery is leading the radio broadcasting today. I saw him in the broadcasting box.”

“Really?” Mustang turns around to see the box in the back of the concert hall. He can barely see the black hair of his team member. “He’s definitely ready for a promotion of some sort!”

Hawkeye chuckles. “Definitely, sir. He’s done a lot on … that day, too.”

Mustang shifts in his chair uncomfortably. Hawkeye detects his discomfort, his tenseness. She, too, has a hard time talking about the Promised Day. She knows she should; new nightmares haunt her now, replacing old murder scenes from Ishval with screams of Roy Mustang being forced to do human transmutation. It’s only her strict body awareness and her discipline she has developed as a sniper that she can prevent herself from shuddering now. The fear of losing him is too much sometimes, even when he is sitting next to her. But she doesn’t want him to be reminded of that day, not now, so she forces herself to speak.

“Any news from the team about our mission in Ishval, sir? Who is coming?”

Mustang face lightens up and she is pleased with herself.

“There is a surprise in it for you, Lieutenant,” he smirks. “To answer your question, Havoc, Breda and Fuery confirmed they are willing to rejoin the team.”

“What about Second Lieutenant Falman, sir?” Hawkeye points out the obvious. Falman was quiet about this topic on the team’s celebration evening, and Hawkeye now suspects the reason.

“Ah, well. Falman requested to stay under the command of Major General Armstrong in Fort Briggs. A shame, really. He told me since that it’s because he finally got himself a girlfriend from North City. He wants to settle.” Mustang doesn’t even attempt to cover the disappointment coloring his voice. Hawkeye isn’t surprised at this disappointment. The team’s integrity means a lot to her, too, but Mustang is even more fond of the composition of his team.

“I see.” Hawkeye pauses, then asks, “And who is his replacement, then, sir?”

“Now, now, Lieutenant,” Mustang scolds her smugly. “It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you, would it? It’s unbefitting of you to be so impatient.”

Hawkeye wonders in these moments whether Mustang is simply humoring her or he is using words like impatient on purpose when they clearly walk the calvary of patience, waiting for each other. She likes it when he mocks her perfect officer behavior, though, it’s a dance they dance together, and it’s familiar and comfortable.

“Indeed.” She doesn’t continue, the ceremony seems like it might start at any time. She feels Mustang’s glance on her and she returns it from the corner of her eye. It’s still so hard to believe that they are alive. 

The ceremony seems both long and too short to Hawkeye. The speeches are deliberately dull, their words were so carefully selected that the result stirs no feelings or inspiration in the audience. Yet sitting next to Mustang feels nice, natural, and it makes her feel like they are a normal couple attending a normal concert.

The classical music following the inauguration allows her mind to wander. She thinks of Havoc’s face when he first felt his legs again. They locked themselves in one of the empty but intact offices, Havoc in a wheelchair, the rest of the team leaning against the desks, Mustang sitting next to her helplessly while she firmly held him by the elbow. Dr Marcoh started with Havoc, as Mustang had insisted. The alchemy was straightforward, and Dr Marcoh was an experienced medical professional. It took a mere second and a flash of light to undo Havoc’s loss. Hawkeye found it almost painful just how ridiculously easy it had been. Havoc grunted, his eyes widened, and she could tell he wanted to say something, something witty, or perhaps something thankful, but only silent tears streamed down on the normally cheerful soldier’s stubbly face.

“There, there,” Dr Marcoh smiled understandingly. Breda joked about stepping on his toes, Fuery patted his shoulders, and Falman offered a handkerchief.

“Welcome back,” Hawkeye said to him with a rare, toothy smile. Then Mustang started to demand if it worked.

“Yeah chief,” Havoc grinned through the tears. “Sounds like you’re next.”

Breda pushed Havoc and his wheelchair out of the transmutation circle on the floor. Dr Marcoh checked if all the signs were intact, then gestured for them to come.

“Come, Colonel, we’re standing up,” Hawkeye translated to the blind man. He clutched the white cane that he hadn’t yet learned to use, but she held his elbow steadily and helped him up. He grabbed her lower arm with his free hand, obviously due to nervousness, and he helplessly held onto the Lieutenant. Hawkeye felt a wave of pity. She had never seen him so unsure, not even in the cursed moment when her life had been offered to him. She squeezed him gently and guided him to the transmutation circle, talking to him in the most reassuring way she knew to make sure he understood what was happening around him. “We’re approaching Dr Marcoh. I’ll leave you in the transmutation circle and the doctor will do his work on you. I’ll come back to help once he is finished. Everything will be fine.”

She felt his anxiety in his jerky nod, she felt the shivers of his body. Hawkeye stepped out of the circle and stood right behind the doctor. Once more, the procedure was painfully simple. Mustang squeezed his eyes shut after the flash. She couldn’t help feeling concerned when he wouldn’t open them, so she stepped closer, so close that she could hear his erratic breathing.

“You alright, sir?” she asked gently. “I can guide you again.”

She then touched his upper arm and Mustang’s eyes shot open. _She knew_ it had worked because they were sharp, focused, _beautiful,_ and they chained her own eyes to his, they held her gaze, pierced into her, read her. She noticed the way his pupils dilated as he desperately took in the sight of her. His lips trembled as he whispered, “You are even more beautiful than I remembered.”

She could’ve cried as the relief washed over her and she hugged him without thinking. It was awkward, because it ended up like something between the passionate embrace her heart had wanted and the friendly-coworkers-brohug that she would have allowed herself, but Mustang buried his face in her shoulder, and didn’t let her go.

“There, there,” Dr Marcoh said again. He was probably close enough to hear his comment, Hawkeye thought for a fleeting second, but they were behind closed doors and in that moment she was ready to resign if it meant she could stay in his arms for just one more second. His body was shaking against hers, but she held him, supported him, and she could feel him respond to her touch.

“Did it work?” she heard someone asking, so she gently let him go and gave everyone a watery smile instead. Mustang was still wordless. He looked at his team with an intense but unreadable face, then he walked up to Havoc who was still sitting in his wheelchair and knelt in front of him.

“Are you alright?” Mustang asked Havoc with the voice of a concerned friend, not a commanding officer. Hawkeye could’ve teared up at that tone alone, it was so characteristic of him, so caring, so stupidly selfless.

“All good. How about you?”

Mustang didn’t respond. He rested his forehead on Havoc’s knees and released a long, shaky breath. It seemed as if he had been holding it in ever since Havoc’s injury.

“Thank you. Just… thank you,” he said in a relieved voice. She wasn’t sure what he was trying to say with this – it sounded like an apology – but she could tell Havoc was touched. But then he ruffled Mustang’s messy head with his trademark grin.

“Aw, come on now. Let’s go get a beer, chief. I wanna hear all the details of this mess. Plus I gotta smoke.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Hawkeye said to Marcoh quietly. “Thank you.”

At the end of the concert, they get to enjoy a reception. Hawkeye thinks it’s fabulous, Mustang thinks it’s ostentatious, but he disappears in the crowd to talk to the right people again. She stands by the wall with her usual unreadable expression that grants her peace from most colleagues. She is not overly familiar with any of them. The guest list is selective to high-ranking officials; she herself is most likely here due to the fact that she and Mustang were active on the Promised Day and they were both injured in action. She is most likely one of the lowest ranking officers in the room so she doesn’t expect much interest from anyone. This suits her just fine. She gets to watch Mustang’s back, the way he engages with Major General Brown from the West City. They seem amicable. Brown is a thin soldier, not particularly skilled at combat, he has climbed the ladder through the trade relations and good diplomatic relations he established with Creta. His style is similar to Mustang’s; he seems easy-going and sociable. His eyes are smart, attentive, and he has a typical Amestrian complexion with fair skin, slightly receding light brown hair, oval head. Hawkeye knows he hasn’t been to Ishval, nor has he been around on the Promised Day. She finds herself vaguely jealous of his luck.

She is surprised when President Grumman waves directly at her and gestures her to approach. She walks up to the group of four soldiers; Grumman, two bodyguards, and Major General Armstrong.

“Lieutenant Hawkeye!” Grumman greets her with unmasked joy. “Come closer, Lieutenant.”

“Congratulations, President Grumman, sir,” Hawkeye salutes.

“At ease, at ease,” Grumman laughs. “I won’t have a hard job as President of this country. Our colleagues are truly wonderful! Major General Armstrong has already made excellent suggestions. We still need to restore some of the buildings and reorganize our team in Central following this chaos. However, the Major General proposed a military exercise following the restorations. Our troops have been depleted during the battle and this exercise might help us improve the skills of some lower ranking colleagues and train them to fill the roles left empty. I thought you might be interested in this, Lieutenant.”

Hawkeye isn’t sure. She doesn’t mind a promotion, but she is not necessarily interested in obtaining a rank that would mean she is no longer Mustang’s subordinate. She is uncomfortable about the fact that the deceased soldiers are referred to as depleted troops. She is confused about her role in these trainings. What exactly did the Major General suggest she would do? Those concerns are, of course, hers alone and no soul gets to be privy to them.

“That sounds promising,” she agrees neutrally. “It’s a remarkable opportunity for all the soldiers. Excellent suggestion, Major General Armstrong.”

“As I voiced this to the President, I will need a new subordinate in Fort Briggs, with my loyal Captain Buccaneer deceased. I won’t take weaklings like Colonel Haggard or alchemists without a sense of combat like Colonel Mustang. I was disappointed by the soldiers of Central and their lack of skills that I had to witness on the – what you called it? – Promised Day. This is why I suggested you, Lieutenant, as a trainer to President Grumman. You could lead the exercise in the shooting range. We’re still discussing who else could lead the training sessions in other specialties.”

Armstrong’s voice is dismissive. She looks disgusted by the soldiers of Central as if not even Hawkeye’s infamous sharpshooting skills could redeem them. Hawkeye weighs the idea of leading a military exercise, but she is not particularly against it. It’s certainly less stressful than being the bodyguard of the reckless Flame Alchemist. 

“Thank you, Major General,” Hawkeye responds appreciatively. “It is an honor and I am looking forward to participating in any way.”

“How excellent!” Grumman grins. “Thank you both! Truly my work will be easy with colleagues like you two – even though I agree, the good Captain Buccaneer is an irreplaceable loss.”

The Major General has an oddly blank face. Hawkeye senses this would be an appropriate moment for her to leave; Armstrong might have other topics to discuss with the President and she, on the other hand, has no interest in talking to her grandfather. She learned his identity after Mustang had made her his subordinate, and these family relations now seem like a risk to the Colonel’s political plans. Besides, she admits to herself, she is not sure she has forgiven Grumman the fact that she could’ve faced the perils of a young orphan alone if it hadn’t been for Roy Mustang. She leaves the officers and tries not to imagine Buccaneer’s dying face. She didn’t have to witness his death. Having served under the homunculus Bradley, her imagination provides more than enough ammo.

“So what did you discuss with the President?” Some time later, Mustang shows up next to her. She feels a bit warmer inside, knowing that Mustang has been keeping an eye on her too, otherwise how would he know about her brief chat? He seems exhausted. The conversations must’ve tired him out. Hawkeye suspects that he is ready to take his leave, and she’s vaguely happy she stayed this long. She is not on active duty – the lower ranking soldiers patrolling this building are – but that has never stopped either of them from caring for the other.

“I’m happy to discuss his plans with you – in my working hours,” she responds dryly. “I’m about to leave. If you are interested, I can drive you home, sir.”

“Oh! How convenient!” Very convenient. It’s almost like she offered because she knew he’d love to take it. “You didn’t drink?”

Hawkeye shrugs.

“Very well, Lieutenant. Your offer is appreciated.”

Soon they are in her car. He sits in the back and observes her face in the mirror. She doesn’t mind his gaze; she has mastered the art of driving even with the distracting presence of Roy Mustang. 

Or his distracting questions.

“How is your neck, Lieutenant?” Hawkeye doesn’t respond immediately. There is just not much to say. It’s fine. It’s a deep cut. It heals slowly. But this question is loaded with meaning; she hears his worry in it. She hears his self-loathing. “Does it hurt?”

“It’s fine, sir. The main reason why I keep it wrapped up is the cream I treat the wound with. It’s very thick. It would make a mess.” _No, I’m not hurt._ She hears him exhale. It’s not common that _he_ has to be worried for _her,_ for so long it’s been the other way around. The Promised Day shifted that dynamism. The doctor with the golden tooth made him realize for good that she wasn’t invincible.

“When will you remove it? Is it going to scar? Maybe we should’ve asked Marcoh–”

“One more scar hardly makes a difference.”

Mustang sits in silence. She curses inwardly when she realizes her cool statement made him think of her back. Those scars are much nastier. It’s still a tense topic between them. He dislikes that she made him do that to her. She dislikes that he can’t see the destruction of the tattoo the way she does: as an act of liberation. She doesn’t say more during the ride but she carefully plans how she will comfort him with a soothing word or two before he would get out of the car. She doesn’t want to trigger his nightmares.

“I will make you proud one day.” He speaks first when she finally parks the car. Hawkeye turns around in her seat to be able to look at him directly. His eyes glance sideways as if to avoid looking at her. Her heart aches for him. To an external eye, he is always confident, always ambitious, always unafraid. But with her, he is honest. Brutally so. She wouldn’t have it any other way though.

“Sir,” she says softly, with the kind of voice in which _sir_ means _Roy,_ “you’ve already made me proud a million times.”

When he doesn’t respond, she continues. “This day was long and we are weary. Go rest. If you need professional help, just call that therapist you mentioned before. Elizabeth or what was her name.”

“Heh. Will do.” Mustang is much happier with this carte blanche she has given her for a call. She doesn’t let him fake it often – she doesn’t want someone to notice or worse, crack their code – so she knows that this offer is meaningful. She is unashamedly excited about getting to chat with him this weekend, too. Weekends could be so long without him.

“Go rest,” she says again. Her expression is kind, bordering on affectionate. “We’ll see each other on Monday. And the day after.”

She hopes he hears the promise in her voice. _I’ll be there for you on Monday. And every day after._


	3. Ch.2: Foundering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaah folks commented on the previous chapters and I was SO HAPPY. Love you all <3 
> 
> This is a new chapter in which -drum roll- Riza doesn't say anything. :D Sorry ahahah, my aim is to illustrate Roy's longing and how they just can't run to each other for comfort whenever they want. But in the next chapter she's gonna interact a lot with people, including this so so complicated man, so stay tuned!
> 
> We're still setting up the story, it starts a bit slower than I planned, but in the next chapter they *will* arrive to Ishval and then the work finally begins, so we're almost there. :3 
> 
> Thank you for reading and commenting!! <3

“If you want to have good aim, you have to learn to discipline your body.”

_That would be useful,_ Mustang thinks to himself. The military exercise in Central has proved to be quite useful. Younger soldiers had their combat skills trained; Major General Brown shared his experiences with economic policies in the West such as tackling unemployment which Mustang found very useful; Colonel Haggard – an outstanding logistician – discussed the role of infrastructure in regional development, and Olivier Mira Armstrong gave a lecture on the importance of talent cultivation within the military. When he wasn’t listening to his colleagues, Mustang was in charge of the alchemist-architecture collaboration that worked to restore the buildings and HQ of Central.

Right now, however, he is sitting in the shooting range to check how his Lieutenant is doing with the younger soldiers. After all, now that Armstrong made such strong points about talent cultivation, it was his job as a commanding officer to assess how his subordinate was doing in her new role as a trainer. Turns out she is excellent.

Hawkeye doesn’t know he is there. Unless she just senses him or something, he wouldn’t put it past her, that woman could have a strange sixth sense sometimes. She has already given a short introduction, then discussed the right techniques for at least a dozen different types of weapons, and now they are practicing.

Mustang can’t erase the affectionate expression from his face. _She is so smart._ She speaks calmly, concisely, and unlike the generals with their over-inflated sense of self-importance, she doesn’t bloat her speech, and instead allows time for questions. She has clearly come prepared. The way she talks is structured, logical, but not overly technical. Her face is neutral but not unkind, and she manages to foster a pleasant, almost fun atmosphere instead of the competitive, toxic environment that is typical in the military.

_She is so smart, and she should be recognized for it._ Typically for him, he feels a pang of guilt. He wonders if she could have climbed higher on the military ladder if it weren’t for him. She would deserve it. She works more than other Lieutenants do. She does more complex tasks. If Grumman weren’t the President, he would be worried about her being transferred somewhere else, away from him. How selfish can one man be, he thinks, and he is ready to wallow in guilt when he remembers just how strong this woman is, and just how much integrity she has – and that it is her who chooses to support him every day.

Now she’s talking about disciplining the body. He can’t hear her well, but he already knows this topic; he has listened to her sharing her thoughts on this before. In any case, the kind of discipline his body would need right now is an entirely different kind. He sees how she fixes the posture of a soldier aiming at the target, and he remembers the way she would lead her by his elbow when he was blind. The way she would ask first if he was ready, the way she would make sure not to startle him, the way she would talk to him about what was happening around them. He wishes he could feel that so frequently again. He wishes he could be the soldier whose shoulder she has adjusted. He yearns to touch her, to feel her so much that it feels like his skin could set itself on fire. Ridiculous, really, to feel this way when the Lieutenant is elaborating on the importance of mastering one’s body to achieve steady hands.

Mustang leaves when Hawkeye begins to wrap up the class. He doesn’t want to steal her moment. As he walks away from the shooting range, he wonders about how lucky he is that Hawkeye will be there with him in Ishval again. He is not sure he could face those harsh deserts and its unyielding inhabitants without her by his side.

~~~

Their time in Central is slowly coming to an end. Under Colonel Mustang’s leadership, the city has been rebuilt and President Grumman can begin his work as a President in earnest. They are scheduled to travel in four days. Mustang is nervous. The only thing that eases his nervousness is imagining Hawkeye’s face when she sees the new team member, the one to replace Falman. He hopes the Lieutenant won’t be disappointed. 

Speaking of the Lieutenant, it hardly comes as a surprise that she got promoted to Captain for her participation in the Battle of the Promised Day and the subsequent restoration and training, not to mention her extensive experience. She is not alone; as Major General Armstrong suggested, many soldiers found themselves higher on the ladder to fill the roles that were left empty due to the losses on the Promised Day. Another example is Kain Fuery who is now First Sergeant. Mustang is proud. He is in fact prouder of Fuery who has grown a lot under his command, and whom he has mentored extensively ever since they moved to the East Area HQ with the team. Getting used to calling Hawkeye Captain will certainly take some time, though. Just like her, Mustang too has great expertise with infusing her rank with so much emotion that _Lieutenant_ can sound as intimate as if they were on a date night. Captain doesn’t yet have the same flow to it.

His contemplation is interrupted by no other than Major General Brown.

Mustang likes Brown, and thinks he likes him too. The Major General is relatively untainted by the genocides of the military. He knows a lot about diplomacy, however, and he was even sent to Creta on missions before. He is a key figure in soothing border tensions, and he has advocated for the Cretan minorities in Amestris. He is not a solider type. He vaguely reminds Mustang of Hughes; Brown has two children and he showed pictures to Mustang on the inauguration day. The thought strikes him, _if the homunculi already revealed that she is my weakness, then why don’t I get to talk about her too?_ He has one single picture of her in his apartment, tucked in an alchemy book. She is sixteen on it and looks different enough that most people wouldn’t recognize her immediately.

After some back-and-forth polite chitchat (they have both worked quite hard during the military exercise), Brown brings up the topic that really interests him.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about that subordinate of yours, Captain Hawkeye. I know we don’t usually transfer colleagues from well-established teams, but the West Area HQ is also quite low on officers and just like Major General Armstrong, I too have been on the hunt for some fresh blood. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to let her go?”

Mustang’s face is perfectly composed. This is not the first time in his life he’s had to deflect suggestions about Hawkeye transferring, but now, after the Promised Day, he is more stressed about losing her, and his routine eludes him. He chooses to go with one version of the truth instead.

“I agree with your assessment, sir, Hawkeye is solid at her job. But having fought in Ishval, she commented that she would really like to take part in its rebuilding. I see no reason to deny her this path in her career progression.” His words are professional. He briefly touches his palms together as he speaks.

“Ah I see. Once in Ishval, always in Ishval, I suppose,” Brown jokes. Little does he know how correct he is, considering the PTSD that haunts most Ishval veterans. “Too bad. Thanks anyway, Colonel. Good luck to you and your team over there.”

“Thank you, sir. You too.”

Mustang is relieved when Brown leaves. His chest is tight, and he finds himself in the underground tunnels again. He has to support himself against the wall of the corridor. He sees the hands of the Bradley replicas snatching Hawkeye away. The doctor with the golden tooth—his face is replaced with Brown’s. _Can I even work in the military if I can’t pull myself together? Can I be entrusted with Ishval?_

The wall lights up.

He is still not used to being able to perform alchemy without a drawn circle. The white wall cracked from his accidental release of alchemic energy.

He hastily undoes the crack with alchemy. The wall gains a faint yellowish tint where he fixed the otherwise pristine wall. He got much better at architectural alchemy, but his focus is evidently aloft.

Will his composure always break under the memories of the Promised Day?

~~~

Mustang starts to understand how Edward Elric feels whenever he is called short. Can he go on about his day without superior officers inquiring about Captain Riza Hawkeye?

He is in an office room with Major General Armstrong and Major Miles. Miles looks a bit… reserved? _Sad_? Armstrong’s purses her lips, the same way Hawkeye does sometimes, when he slacks off. Come to think of it, they are quite similar, except Armstrong hates him.

Still, there is no patience left in Mustang for the deal Armstrong proposes.

“I’m offering you my most trusted adjutant, Mustang,” Armstrong repeats. Her frosty glare is absolutely different from the delighted gleam that is characteristic to Alex Luis Armstrong. She looks like she is a thread away from punching Mustang in the face. “He is my right hand, and yet, I am willing to let him go. Major Miles wishes to support you in the rebuilding of Ishval. Can you even comprehend just how invaluable he is to you in the land where everybody will dislike you just as much as I do, _Hero of Ishval_?” Her voice mocks him.

Mustang clenches his teeth. Arms folded against him, he hardens his expression. He is _sick_ of this woman. He and Armstrong have a long history of rivalry, and he knows that if it weren’t for the common enemies they’ve been fighting, they could stab each other in the back without any moral scruples.

“I appreciate Major Miles. I greatly do. Should he join us, I will reorganize my team around him so he can participate in the strategic meetings concerning Ishval; my team members will take care of the administration.” Mustang tries to convey his gratefulness and his hope to this man. Miles would be an asset in Ishval, he knows this. But not at _that_ cost. “I fail to see why you would have Captain Hawkeye transferred to you in return.”

“You are not in a negotiating position,” Armstrong barks at him. “Do you understand how little support I will have in Briggs if I let Miles go? After losing Buccaneer?”

“Sounds like a problem alright,” Mustang shrugs nonchalantly. “In fact, it sounds like it is you who is not in a negotiating position. Are you this desperate for a good subordinate, Major General Armstrong?”

He doesn’t quite expect the violent march with which Olivier Mira Armstrong walks up to him and glares him in the face. She is way too close for comfort, especially since she has her naked blade in hand. Mustang raises his hand and visibly prepares his fingers for a snap.

“Back off. I have neither the time nor the patience for this. Ask President Grumman for new officers in your team. Hell, for all I care, ask him to transfer Hawkeye,” he bluffs. It’s a safe bet. Grumman is unlikely to blow his team apart. “If he commands me, I will have no choice but to let her go. But right now, all I see is a superior officer harassing me. Rude as always, Major General.”

“Pathetic little weasel,” Armstrong spats. She probably understands the lack of risk in his bluff, too. “Hiding behind the President’s orders like you did in the East. Hiding behind alchemy. If it weren’t for that pocket watch, you would’ve never made it through the Academy. You are just like my brother.”

“I like Major Armstrong. To me, this is not an insult.”

Armstrong rolls her eyes, then suddenly turns around and walks away from him. Mustang is vaguely impressed that she shows no sign of fear, and dares to turn her back against him, even though a second ago they were threatening each other with violence. He lowers his hand.

“It is unusually impressive that you hold onto your subordinate like that.” Her voice is composed, categorical, as if she made up her mind. “Perhaps the only valuable treat that I see in you right now. Truly, I cannot force you to transfer the Captain. I would’ve stood up for Buccaneer with all my might as well.” Her shoulders are hunched; while her voice is clear, her body language conveys the grief she must be feeling. Mustang feels sorry for the soldier in front of him. He still remembers the shame he felt when Havoc was decommissioned.

“Major Miles comes back with me to Fort Briggs to help me find my second-in-command. If he so wishes, he will be free to follow Colonel Mustang to Ishval and join the reconstruction. Is this acceptable to you, Major?”

“Yes, sir,” Miles says without hesitation.

“We’re leaving.”

Miles nods at Mustang who returns the courtesy. Then he follows Olivier Mira Armstrong who is marching out of the room without even acknowledging Mustang. The Colonel sees her face for a brief second, but it is as unreadable as always. There is no sign of weakness. Mustang wants to appease her for a second, perhaps by saying goodbye, because he can’t help but empathize with the Major General, but she leaves no time for this nonsense. Mustang remains alone in the room.

_That was close._

~~~

Roy Mustang spends the evening with Madame Christmas. Behind the hermetically closed doors of her clandestine business, he finally allows his composure to break.

“I’m not sure I’m doing very well about this whole thing.”

“About going back to Ishval?” the Madame asks. She has already given him two drinks. Roy hates to admit that it helps.

“Yes. I mean… Nah. About—you know. The Promised Day.”

“What of it?” The Madame clearly doesn’t tiptoe around the topic. “Are you still not over surviving and getting your eyesight back, you spoiled brat?” 

“More like I’m not over seeing her life offered to me, like a treat for a dog,” Roy blurts out. He feels the sizzling anger again. He still wants to kill that damn doctor, willingly, _slowly,_ rather than letting him be a collateral damage in the human transmutation.

Chris Mustang touches his shoulder. It helps. In fact, Roy wonders if it’s the only remedy when he loses his control.

“So it’s about Riza, huh?”

“Fuck. It always is.” He hates it that the Madame gets to call her by her first name so naturally. He is almost jealous of his foster mother. “Everybody wants her to transfer. Everybody knows just how good she is. What if they manage to remove her from the team?”

“It’s funny you call yourself a dog,” the Madame grins with this typical face when Roy knows she’s about to say something he’ll hate even more. “You know that they sometimes call her your dog.”

“Yeah.” Chris Mustang managed to steer the conversation to another topic he hates. He is not sure whether he hates _Mustang’s pet_ or _Mustang’s dog_ (and its more offensive variants) more. He once asked Hawkeye about this. She responded she would prefer if he focused on his work as much as he focused on what other people say. Typical.

“Well. When you were blind, and she was leading you to places—now gossipers call her your guide dog.”

Roy snorts. He can’t decide whether that’s a new low or surprisingly wholesome. “Accurate, isn’t it?”

“I would describe it as _useful._ It’s much better the gossip is about her being a guide dog than about your miraculous healing. My girls have worked hard to disseminate the idea that your eyes could be healed only because they were taken in an odd alchemic attack which could be reversed. In this delicate situation with the Stone, anything that directs the attention to this exquisitely fucked up relationship between the two of you is useful.”

Heh. Both Edward and Roy wanted to keep the eyesight restoration a secret. Ed made one scene about Roy’s ‘lack of moral code’ but left it at that. However, no one, absolutely no one wanted to get the word out that there is one more Philosopher’s Stone remaining. Unfortunately, word did get out about Roy Mustang losing his vision, but they managed to attribute its return to the healing alchemy of Dr Marcoh who could undo a ‘foul alchemic attack’ on the Colonel. Havoc’s reappearance was simply attributed to extensive medical care and exercise in his absence. 

“My relationship with my Lieutenant is not _fucked up,_ ” he whines. He remembers she is Captain now but damn, he is too fond of calling her his Lieutenant.

“You wanted to talk to me because you said you weren’t doing well,” the Madame reminds him.

“Because I don’t want to do this,” Roy says darkly. “I don’t want to be terrified of losing her. I don’t want her to protect me. I want it the other way around. Why am I even an alchemist if I can’t protect just this one person? When I couldn’t protect Maes?”

“You did protect her though,” the Madame says and lights up a cigarette. “She’s fine. You’re just whining.”

“Yeah sure. That would’ve been very convincing when she was bleeding out in my arms and there was _nothing_ I could do. She would be five feet under now if it weren’t for the Xingese princess. She wouldn’t have been _fine._ ” Roy knows he speaks insolently but he is so mad at himself. He and Riza should’ve talked more about this topic while they were in the privacy of the hospital, because the guilt and worry are constantly eating him now, and he is clearly not over this most recent trauma. Now the opportunities for honest discussion are scarce again.

“In any case,” the Madame pats his shoulder, “you are whining now. You’re going to Ishval in a matter of days, Roy. You are lucky: you won’t be under the eyes of your commanding officer. Amestrians are oppressive, they don’t really care about the good of Ishval. This means that for all intents and purposes, you won’t be a highly visible figure. You have at least half a decade until Grumman gets bored of his presidency. This is the time for you to fine-tune the details of your leadership program and to figure out whether Hawkeye is willing to withdraw from the military for your sake. I suggest you start thinking about this.”

Roy hangs his head. Those are important topics, and he knows they should be at the center of his thoughts instead of those recurring visions of blood-soaked blond hair on filthy floor. His foster mother knows that this is hardly a satisfying closure, so she reaches out to embrace her. Her strong, almost sour perfume surrounds him, and so does the cloud of smoke she exhales. Yet it feels like home, and for the first time in days, he feels hope bubbling in his chest. Despite all odds, they are going to Ishval – together.


	4. Ch.3: Arrivals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you everyone! I was so excited to see comments and whatnot, it really makes me motivated to continue with this story. <3 
> 
> Second, I've decided to move some of my notes to the end so I can chatter about the chapter without spoiling it for you!

They get to travel to Ishval by a 6-person military car. Most other soldiers come by train. Truly, being an officer has its perks.

Breda drives, Fuery sits next to him. Behind them are Mustang and Havoc. And in the back of the car it’s Riza Hawkeye with Black Hayate – and the surprise: Rebecca Catalina.

Hawkeye doesn’t take Mustang’s surprise very well. It didn’t help that she had no idea until they met in front of the HQ gates, waiting for the car to arrive. Aside from greeting the team and getting in the car and sorting out the details of who drives, Hawkeye keeps her mouth shut. But then… 

“What’s going on,” she demands once they are all in.

“So, everyone, I don’t suppose I have to introduce Lieutenant Rebecca Catalina to anyone,” Mustang beams. “She is an excellent officer with great combat expertise, a fellow soldier from Ishval. Thank you for accepting my offer to work with us, Lieutenant Catalina!”

“Hi all,” Becky grins. “Thanks Colonel! Can’t wait to be back to that scorched wasteland.”

“I love her,” Havoc snickers. Breda and Fuery wave at Becky and they both seem ridiculously thrilled.

Hawkeye is fuming.

“Don’t you know, sir, that Becky is my best friend?” Her voice is dangerously low.

The question is, of course, rhetorical. The friendship of the Hawk’s Eye and the Grenade Girl is well-known. Riza and Rebecca met in the Academy where they were classmates and from their class, they were the only females to receive training for combat rather than for intelligence or logistics. This was pretty much enough to tie the knot of friendship very tight between them for good. Becky is loud, unreserved and impolite at times, whereas Riza is calm, collected, and appropriate. Becky has a hard time genuinely trusting people, particularly men, whereas Riza has no problem supporting one man with her entire self. Becky was the one to held Riza when she was first sick with hangover, and Riza was the one to support Becky after each breakup and rebound date. Yet they’re both orphans and chose the military because they didn’t know better – and because the military is the only pathway for social mobility or research in Amestris.

“Yeah!” Mustang looks so glad Hawkeye could almost feel her anger dissipating. Almost.

“So now, instead of the friendship we have, I get to be all professional with her because you thought it would be a great idea to create a big friendship circle from the team?” Her voice is angry. Not composed. Angry. She wants the Colonel to stop looking so damn happy. _Why didn’t he ask me about this?_

“It’s not like it’s forbidden to be friends, Captain,” Breda shrugs. “We always drink together, don’t we?”

“Can’t wait to join that,” Becky chimes in. She obviously doesn’t worry about working together with her best friend.

“Yeah, it’s only, y’know, relationships that aren’t cool. Bad luck for me!” Havoc grins at Rebecca. Then his grin turns into mockery. “Unless the Cap and Lieutenant Catalina—”

“Do. Not. Finish.” Hawkeye knows it when she lost. It’s not a rare situation and it always goes like this. Something relatively inappropriate happens, the Colonel allows it (if not initiates it), she tries to fight it but eventually it is a lost cause. As much as she is the conscience of the entire team, there is only so much you can do. She leans back in the soft seat of the car and closes her eyes. “For the record, I’m happy you’re here, Becky.”

“Lieutenant Catalina,” Mustang correct her sweetly as if he’s been waiting for this moment in his entire life. “Please, Captain, I can’t allow this disrespect to our new team member.”

Hawkeye hopes her glare is deadly. If balancing her relationship with Mustang wasn’t already mental gymnastics, now she gets to do the same with Becky. The team snickers, then Becky casually puts her hand on Hawkeye’s thigh. Black Hayate, who sits by Hawkeye’s feet, promptly licks the hand.

“Hey,” she says quietly. “I’m sorry if this makes you uncomfortable.”

Hawkeye decides she is not angry after all. At least not at Rebecca. The Colonel is another topic entirely.

“It’s not that,” she sighs. The car makes too much noise; she doubts that Mustang and Havoc could learn their hushed whispers. “You’re my favorite girl. The last thing I want is to call you Lieutenant Catalina. I don’t want a professional relationship. I want us to be friends.”

“Heh. Stick with Becky then. It’s not like Mustang cares,” Becky grins.

“You don’t say,” Riza rolls her eyes.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about it. It was Mustang’s idea. He said since I already know everyone on the team, there’s no point in introducing me in advance and it’s enough if we meet here.”

“Did you apply, or did he approach you?”

“I applied for a transfer, yeah, and he chose me from the pool. Actually, many officers did, but apparently my profile was best suited for this team. Not sure what that means,” Becky shrugs. “I’m glad though. It’ll be fun. I missed you a lot when we weren’t in the same town.”

“I missed you too,” Riza smiles. “I’m glad the Colonel got someone nice on the team. I admit I was a bit worried we would get a dull person who holds us back.” _Holds him back._

“I don’t suppose many people want to come to Ishval,” Becky says darkly.

Riza knows she isn’t exactly excited either. Her problem does not lie with the scorched wasteland, as Rebecca called it; she isn’t sure she is ready to face its inhabitants who might still grieve those friends and family members that died by her hand. She is sure, however, that as painful as it is, working in Ishval is the only way they can face those inner demons and put them to rest.

“Aw, aren’t they sweet?” Havoc asks an hour later. Mustang peeks behind him over his shoulder to see what he means.

The Lieutenant rests her head on Becky’s shoulder, while Becky rests hers on Riza’s head. They’re both asleep. Riza’s expression is relaxed; her blond hair has been slipping out of her trademark hair clip and now it frames her face in a messy, endearing way. Mustang stares at her lips; they are parted in a rather comical fashion. Yet she looks so peaceful and she is clearly very comfortable with Rebecca. It’s unusual. It’s sweet. It is, Mustang thinks to himself, _cute._

“She would never do that with any of us,” Mustang huffs dramatically.

“I suppose getting these two on the same team was a pretty good idea, chief.”

_~~~_

It seemed like the Ishval Civil War would never end.

First, it was the leadership of the East Area HQ that attempted to put an end to the uproar following the murder of that Ishvalan child. They promised to find the culprit and arrest him. He was never found. The people of Ishval assumed that Amestris didn’t care about _their_ victim so they swore revenge in turn.

Then, every non-stationed soldier was stationed in Ishval. This mainly meant soldiers from Central which was almost emptied. They couldn’t afford to transfer soldiers from the North where surprise raids were constant, or from the East; if Creta tried to seize the opportunity, the soldiers wouldn’t have been able to travel back in time.

It still wasn’t enough. Soon, students in the last year of their training were deployed. This included Riza and Rebecca. They travelled together on the train to Ishval, then they were placed in different units. Rebecca’s new commander was a young Captain, Maes Hughes and Riza soon found herself among the snipers.

To be a sniper is to be alone.

Alone with the target. It took her many days to pull the trigger the first time. She was staring at the potential victims and she thought she was more scared than they were. She was terrified. She was told off on the regular by her commanding officer. They called her useless. The only reason why she didn’t get a punishment of some sort was because she didn’t waste ammo or reveal their positions by missing the target.

Then she saw Rebecca in action and her friend was in danger. That’s when she pulled it first.

That’s when she killed first.

They stationed her to cover the team of Hughes. Killing got easier, then. She just had to protect Rebecca Catalina and Maes Hughes who had been kind to her a couple times despite not knowing her at all.

Despite her anguish, she had a steady arm, so she hardly ever missed. They started to praise her. She felt sick to receive commendation or promotion for what she thought was spineless murder, committed from a safe distance, without having to smell death.

The only thing that kept her sane was Becky’s gratefulness.

“It’s fucking scary,” Becky told her. “The Ishvalans are terrifying. Their combat styles are unconventional, I never know what to expect. Every day when we approach their hiding spots, I think it will be the day when I die. Knowing you cover us makes it a tiny bit less terrifying. Thanks for protecting us. And from so far, too…You’re truly a hawk.”

“I just want us to make it out alive,” Riza whispered.

Becky nodded. They were young; they wanted to live. And frankly, the war still seemed hopeless. They had been fighting for almost two years. Some soldiers had been here for seven years. Riza had no idea how they managed to remain sane. She felt her psyche crack under the dehumanization of their enemy, her brain was dull from lack of intellectual stimulation, her body was borderline malnourished due to the rationing. Yet she still desperately wanted to make it out alive.

Then, a single one-page document changed Ishval’s fate. Executive Order 3066. The state alchemists arrived and then, Riza started to be able to smell death. The stench of burned flesh made it to her watchtower, too, and she saw it from up there as desert sand turned red with the blood of once living human beings.

The Flame Alchemist was specifically ordered to set the underground tunnels on fire. He was to smoke them out like rats. They burned inside or escaped – only to be slaughtered by Armstrong, Basque Grand, and Kimblee.

Alchemy cannot be done from distance. But the Flame Alchemist’s fire could run quite far. Then, they ordered him to burn down residential areas from the distance. Riza didn’t yet know, then, that the people of Ishval would surrender in six months. 

She watched him. It was easy; he was reckless, an easy target. The lack of caution with which he talked to Hughes made it seem like as if they had no idea that snipers existed on both sides of the war. She wasn’t surprised to see an Ishvali fighter taking advantage of the situation. But after two years of practice in action, she was good. And the fighter was dead. And Roy Mustang was safe. And she, Riza Hawkeye, was disgusted by herself. Not only did she betray her father’s research ( _he knew this was what alchemy could do in the hands of military and I trusted someone he had sent away and he was right, my father had been right all along_ ), she even enabled this mass murder beyond comprehension with the skills of her own.

She was tempted to drop her gun and jump to her death. More importantly, he wanted to know what Roy Mustang was thinking when he was using her father’s alchemy like that. _It’s not really your father’s anymore,_ her thoughts reminded her, _what your father invented was the pyrotextile. Everything else is_ his _doing._ She had to know whether the Flame Alchemist was the same person who had treacherously touched the skin of her naked back.

“Hello Major Mustang,” she said bitterly when she caught up with him and Hughes. “Long time no see.” Roy stared at her. She knew he recognized her but other than that she had a hard time reading his body language. They had been apart for years now. “Do you still remember me?”

“Hey Hawks,” Hughes waved at her, wearing his usual exhausted-but-friendly smile. “Thanks for earlier.”

Riza nodded slowly. She never took his eyes off Roy. “So, this is what you’ve become.”

“A killer,” he whispered. “You too have the eyes of a killer, now.”

Riza squeezed her eyes closed. _Fuck,_ if only she had any moral high ground against this man.

“I trusted you.” The blame was evident in her voice. She was young, broken, and she felt betrayed. She wasn’t going to be rational or level-headed now. Besides, she didn’t need to elaborate on that. They both knew what she trusted him with. They both knew what responsibility came with alchemy.

Roy stared at her without a word. He was exposed and vulnerable like her victims before she shot them. He didn’t try to defend himself. Riza wanted him to; she wanted to shout at him, blame him, make him admit it was all his fault. But it wasn’t. As much as they were responsible, it wasn’t their fault alone. 

“I know,” he said after a long silence. Once again, Riza wanted him to apologize. Her despair needed a scapegoat. But he wasn’t the right figure for that. Not with such emptiness in his eyes. Not with his palpable brokenness.

Riza started to shake. She wanted to hate him so much. She wanted to unleash her anguish at this narcissistic punk who selfishly took his father’s research ( _you gave it to him_ ), who came here just now when the war had been going on for years and he even had the cheek to look so broken. Her idealistic young days were gone, though. In her perch, it was only consistent, rational stoicism that kept her sane, and she had done enough self-reflection in the solitude of a sniper to understand that her abhorrence’s target was not, in fact, Roy Mustang but herself. She turned around and walked away without a word. Roy didn’t dare to follow.

She only started to sob in the privacy of her tent.

~~~

They are there again. Hawkeye expected it to be worse.

The desert doesn’t smell like death anymore. People don’t gasp when they see their blue uniforms. The buildings are eclectic; some are made of stones local to the area, most are made of clay, and some are wobbly wooden constructions resembling a tent rather than a building. The now empty market stands suggest a lively trade exchange during the daytime.

They are stationed in the military barracks. Those are also made of clay. They are small, uncomfortable, but they all get individual rooms with bathroom. Truly, being an officer has its perks. Hawkeye is sure most soldiers here don’t get this luxury.

She gets the room next to Mustang at the end of the hall. She locks the door on herself, feeds Black Hayate and starts to unpack. That is, until the Colonel knocks.

“Captain, can you help me with something?” she hears him and _knows_ this isn’t business. She opens anyway.

“Come in, sir.”

Mustang closes the door behind them and squats to pet the excited Black Hayate. The dog adores him. Hawkeye can relate. 

“Hey,” he looks up at her with a lopsided grin. “We’re neighbors. Can I make a door?”

“I knew it,” she rolls her eyes. “Through the bathroom. Behind the wardrobe.”

“Yes ma’am.” He enters her bathroom, and she follows, then casually leans against the doorframe and watches him. He opens the wardrobe, transmutes its back wall into a wooden door. He opens and then creates a clay door on the clay wall behind the wardrobe. It now leads to his own bathroom on the other side. He grins at Riza with the pride of a five-year-old. She chuckles through her nose noiselessly.

“Cover it on your end, too. And now go. I want you to be seen leaving my room.”

Mustang obeys. He leaves, the ‘Thanks Captain! Good night!’ on the corridor is perhaps a bit too performative but it works. It takes him only thirty seconds to show up in her bathroom again.

Then he hugs her. He squeezes her so tight it’s almost painful, but it feels so good to have his arms around her waist. These moments are rare, often rushed, and never as relaxed and they should be. There is always a worry of getting caught, of ruining their many years of work. But without these occasional slip-ups, they would have gone mad by now, even Riza Hawkeye admits it. There is only so much longing a heart can bear before it breaks.

Her face is pressed against his neck and she inhales deeply. _He smells so good._ His hands run up and down on her back, on the black turtleneck. His fingers get entangled in her golden hair.

“I love it when your hair is down,” Roy murmurs. “It’s beautiful.” _You’re beautiful._

“I missed you,” Riza whispers. Then her voice grown more forceful, “Though I was quite upset about the Becky situation.”

“Oh yeah, about that.” Roy gives her the most sheepish smile in the entire world. When they are alone, she allows this smile to tug at her heart. “You may unleash your fury at me, Captain.”

Riza rolls her eyes. “I’ve chosen,” she emphasizes, “to let it go, Colonel.”

“I count my blessings,” Roy grins, then unceremoniously sits down on the bathroom floor. Riza sits next to him, her back against the uneven wall. Then, she reaches out to Roy’s right hand, takes it into her two hands, her thumbs brushing his hardened skin. She can tell he wants to speak, so she waits.

“This is nice,” he says, looking at their intertwined hands.

“But that’s not what you wanted to talk about,” Riza responds matter-of-factly.

“You’re paranormal.”

“I just know you,” Riza shrugs, though she is obviously pleased with herself. Roy laughs a little. _Know_ is an understatement. He sometimes wonders if she feels all his inner emotions before he would even register them.

“I’m, uh, I’m not doing very well.” Roy, being a bit clumsy when it comes to talking about feelings, is trying to repeat the conversation he had with Madame Christmas.

“With all due respect, sir, no shit.” Roy snorts at her language. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s about the Promised Day,” he whispers, as if the homunculi could still hear them. “It’s about you.”

Riza listens, though at this point she suspects where this conversation will go.

“It’s about the fucking fear that I’ll lose you to some other doctor slashing your throat open,” Roy blurts out. “I suppose I screwed up, didn’t I? I broadcast my feelings for you. I let _them_ know you are a weakness. You’re not a weakness though!” he adds hastily. Riza knows he adds this out of panic; to prevent her from suggesting she distance herself from him. As if that was an option. As if he didn’t know how she softens inside when she hears the words _my feelings for you_ from his mouth. “I can’t have you die on me. Lieutenant.”

Riza smiles at her rank being added as a clumsy afterthought. Her incorrect rank.

“I feel like it needs to be said again,” she says thoughtfully, “that you made the right decision in the tunnels. Of all the alchemists… The Elric brothers, their father, Izumi Curtis… You were the only one who didn’t perform human transmutation willingly. Not even when my life was at stake.” She pauses. “Thank you.”

Roy is giving her one of his disbelieving stares. He can’t wrap his head around this woman who thanks him when he is being choked by guilt.

“I would’ve forgiven you if you tried. I would’ve forgiven you if you murdered Envy, too. But you gave me no reason to forgive. You always did the right thing.” Roy’s disbelief increases at the pride that laces her voice. He clearly didn’t expect this.

“Not always,” Roy reminds her though. “Not in Ishval.”

“Not in Ishval,” Riza agrees. “That’s why we are here now. But you are not alone in that crime. You won’t have to bear the consequences alone.”

“And I wouldn’t have done the right thing if it weren’t for you.”

“Why thank you, I’m glad I’m doing a good job,” Riza responds casually. 

“You are doing an excellent job,” Roy insists, ignoring her bright tone. “This is why I’m scared for you.”

“I don’t have an easy answer to that,” Riza admits. “Wasn’t Kimblee right, though? When we signed up to be in the military, we should’ve known we would be commanded to kill. When I signed up to protect you, to watch your back, I knew what it meant.”

“Don’t bring him up, just don’t bring him up,” Roy spats. His eyes are ablaze. He has a special hatred reserved for Solf J. Kimblee, may he rest in peace, who was borderline harassing Riza during the Ishval War. Roy is still not over that.

“He was right though. In any case,” Riza goes on because she knows citing Kimblee is not the best conversational strategy with Roy Mustang, “you said you couldn’t afford to lose me. When we killed Envy.”

“Uh-huh. I meant it.”

“I meant it too when I said that the bullet that kills you would be followed by another one that ends me. You know this. You knew this when I signed up for your protection. You knew that I’d follow you anywhere. None of this is new, is it?” Riza’s words are harsh, almost cruel. Yet her tone is so serene that Roy finds himself pacified. She talks about dying for him so easily as if it were the most natural thing in the world. But he remembers her lost composure, her anguish during their encounter with Lust. He knows she was going to give up. He reprimanded her, then, but it was obviously lost on her.

“Alright, but it’s not what I want.” Riza is amused because even as Roy is trying to make a point, he can manage to sound a little sulky. “I want you to be there. I want you to remind me of the right path. I don’t want you to _die._ I don’t want you to bleed out in front of me just because I wanted to go high. This isn’t right.”

“We are less likely to die if we work together, Colonel,” she points out gently. Roy doesn’t have any immediate self-loathing comeback to this, so Riza continues. She chooses her words carefully because she knows she is about to bring up another sore topic.

“This is not the first time I was at risk. Lust almost got all three of us on the team. You were so seriously injured, your recovery took long, then we even had the homunculi and Lan Fan to deal with. So, you didn’t have time to overthink what happened, you couldn’t mull over the consequences of our pact. We are in Ishval now, and we have an enormous responsibility to this land and its people. In a way, you don’t have the luxury to overthink this time either. We’ve got work to do.” Despite her calm tone, her words cut. She sees him wince.

“I will die with you,” he declares loudly, dramatically, stupidly. Riza would giggle if she didn’t sense his distress. “If you die, I will do your thing with the bullets.”

“Way to render my potential sacrifice meaningless.”

“This is unfair!” Roy cries out. “You get to die for me, and I don’t? What kind of bullshit is that?”

“One that you agreed to, when you first made me your subordinate,” Riza shrugs, her tone is light again.

“It’s fucked up.”

“Indeed, just like chess.”

Roy is speechless and a bit affronted. He loves chess. He doesn’t take it lightly when Riza makes fun of the game. 

“It’s practical. It’s built on the premise that strategically I’m not an important figure. So, I protect you. In turn, once you’re on the top, you can protect everyone else by creating a more just society. You don’t get to give up on that because you have me, the Hughes family, our team, the Elric brothers, and probably myriad other people who are counting on you, rooting for you, working for you. This is why you don’t get to die. Because I can’t do what you do. No one can. But I can protect you. So let me have my job and please do yours.”

Riza’s cheeks pinken. She loves this man with all her heart, and she knows exactly the weight of what she is offering to Roy – her work, her trust, her love, her life. She knows exactly that she demands similarly huge things from him. She takes him by his word. She expects him to go to places where she can’t go. She demands that he fulfills his ambitions and his desires. At the same time, she doesn’t want to pressure him. She would take it if he decided to give up and settle for something less. If it weren’t for the ambitious fire written all over his face whenever he discusses his political plans, maybe she would even let him.

“Will you be there when all of this is over?” Roy asks after a long pause. This is not the first time he asks about the future.

“If you’ll have me.”

“After this oh so invigorating speech?” Roy mocks her. “I’d be remiss not to have the most honest woman I know.”

“Oh, you’ve got feedback on my speech? Pray tell.”

“No.” Roy has turned to face her, now. He still sits next to her, but his upper body has turned towards her and he puts his free hand against the wall next to her. Riza tilts her head and looks up at him with a deliberately curious expression. _He is so tall._ “I’ve got feedback on _you._ You were brilliant during that training in Central. I know I haven’t told you yet. I should have. You were so good to those newbies. You are so good to everybody.” Roy’s face is increasingly close to hers. He brushes her hair away from her eyes. “You are so good to me.”

“Kiss me then,” Riza whispers, and he flashes a small grin before he finally leans in. Her fingers find the messy black hair on his nape, and she threads her arm around his waist. As always, he kisses her very gently, very carefully, as if he was trying to convey something even in the most passionate moments.

Roy pulls away to look at her and Riza could gasp at this sight alone. He looks so different when they are intimate; a unique mixture of the serious Colonel, the cocky Flame Alchemist, and the utterly devoted, sensitive Roy Mustang. His pale face is pink now, his fingers are around her earrings, his nose bumping into hers because he is too busy staring at her, so intently as if he could burn holes into her skull with his eyes alone.

“Thanks for talking to me.”

“Thanks for trusting me.” She reaches out to his face, and Roy must close his eyes at the sensation of the back of her fingers against his cheek. It’s such a small gesture, so why does it make him feel so powerless when it comes to this woman?

“At this point, Lieutenant, I believe it really goes without saying.” He murmurs against the crook of her neck. “In any case… Have you tried your new bed yet?”

“Not yet. Care to do it with me?” Riza consents to his real question. He looks ridiculously overjoyed at her answer, and it makes him look so young. Riza knows her face is just as foolish; blushed, excited and loving all at the same time, but now their troubled past is temporarily forgotten as they move across the small room without separating, always together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY HELLO
> 
> I just want to share that in my headcanon, Riza is pretty much demisexual or somewhere on the asexual spectrum, either by nature or by having been traumatized by Ishval, it doesn't really matter. I find her peculiar; she is the anime character who, despite being a love interest, isn't hypersexualized, isn't quirky, never goes blushu-blushu. And yet, Roy Mustang, who could have anyone, who could most likely get the sexiest girl in the world if he wanted, he wants her. The fight with Lust is somehow so symbolic to me, Lust is beautiful, flawless, immortal, and Riza is broken, her guns are not particularly powerful against homunculi, she is ready to die, and Roy Mustang kills the one and chooses the other. 
> 
> On the other hand, I think it's important for a Royai fanfiction to address this elephant in the bush about just how close Roy and Riza have been through the ages. There are so many different scenarios I've read in fanfictions, so I really feel like it's something we fans are trying to tackle. :) As you can see, here I've settled on the approach that they must've found clandestine ways to keep their relationship alive. I will definitely flesh this out more in later chapters, and explain how I think this came about. So you don't have to just take this at face value, I hope I'll be able to get into this a lot more! 
> 
> I'm excited to hear your thoughts (as always ^_^), and stay tuned for the next chapter! <3


	5. Ch.4: One Step Forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and thank you for your patience! I'm really happy to let everyone know that this chapter has been BETA'D by a resident superhero Sm0lManthar. This is super helpful because I write most of these after midnight, so you can imagine my state of mind. 
> 
> There are plenty of characters in the story now, so I'm balancing between trying to give 'em all the screen time they deserve and advancing with the story in accordance with my master outline. This means we might be in for a longer ride than I planned, but hopefully that's not a problem? (: 
> 
> Thank you for reading and big thanks to Sm0lManthar!!

Roy Mustang is reminded of a special kind of suffering the stiff desert heat offered to those foolish enough to wear a military uniform. Apparently, he forgot just how hot it gets here during the day. You would think it would be hard to forget how stifling the layers of cotton and wool were under the unforgiving Ishvalian sun. Unfortunately, it’s not surprising that more unpleasant memories took priority over his memory. To his credit however, by the time his team has coordinated their plan of action for the week, his discomfort is no longer at the forefront of his mind.

The heat of hell could not stop him. He is determined to do this right.

“Second Lieutenant Breda, on your desk you will find a list of active development funds of Amestris that I have researched while in Central. I have spoken to the relevant people in the leadership personally, prior to our arrival. They know to expect our proposals. I want you to compose stellar applications for these. You have a week. I want to review it next Monday, then send it off as soon as possible. If you get stuck, ask for help. Captain Hawkeye has worked on grant applications before, she will support you and oversee your work. This is an invaluable opportunity for you to learn from her expertise. Is this acceptable, Second Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Second Lieutenant Havoc, Second Lieutenant Catalina, your assignments are to converse with every soldier who has been stationed here. Ask them about what they have been doing in Ishval, what worked, what did not. Focus on the officers with more responsibilities, but don’t neglect anyone. I want to know everything. I want to know their impressions, their moods, their fears and values. You can share the workload any way you see fit, I don’t care. I want this intel summarized by Friday morning. Is your task clear, Second Lieutenants?”

“Loud and clear, sir.”

“First Sergeant Fuery. Your work will be twofold. I want a detailed record of the telecommunications infrastructure of Ishval, review it. Then, I want your suggestions on how to improve it, and an estimation of how much it would cost. This however,” Mustang pauses, “is not a high priority task. Your main assignment will be to discover undercover radio channels, gather intelligence on whatever the local citizens are up to, get us anything, especially any chatter regarding aggression to our presence. You will report directly to me, and anything you hear or even just suspect, you are to discuss with me immediately. Our goal is to diplomatically neutralize potentially violent threats. But the priority is the safety of civilians. Ultimately the best way to ensure this team is around to facilitate Ishvalian reconstruction is to avoid any harm coming to them. It is not the typical Ishvalian way, but we must be aware nonetheless. Do you understand, First Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir.” From the way Fuery’s eyes widened, Mustang knew Fuery did understand the risks and scopes of his spying task.

“Captain Hawkeye. You also will have two ongoing projects. When we are at base, you will find us every single grant, fund, and development support this country has to offer, and you will hand them over to Second Lieutenant Breda. We will milk everything we can for this land, I don’t want any missed opportunities. As part of this project, you will support the Second Lieutenant, review his work, help him improve, and of course ensure that every application we send out is golden. Second, you will escort me to the strategic meetings with the Ishvalian leadership, in fact, to all meetings I attend. You will take notes of the discussions while also remaining vigilant of the atmosphere of the room, you will read the faces of the attendants, and you will discuss all your insights with me. Think of it as intelligence gathering. I want to make the best decisions possible for these people, and you will assist me. Any questions, Captain Hawkeye?”

“No, sir.”

“Very well. I expect formidable work from all of you. You know what we owe to Ishval.”

It goes without saying, then, that their first weeks have been intense, and Colonel Mustang is grateful for Rebecca Catalina’s suggestion to go out and grab a drink in the simple pub not far from their barracks.

“So, what are your impressions?”

“Can we please, _please_ not talk about work, boss?” Breda pleads. He is exhausted. They all are.

“Just a little bit,” Mustang grins. “It just feels like we’re all more honest after a beer.”

“Speak for yourself, Colonel,” Hawkeye responds dryly. Everybody laughs.

“What I think is that this place is stricken by poverty so the entire infrastructure needs to be rebuilt. Even just in securing the funds will be challenging,” Fuery responds seriously to Mustang’s original question. “You told us that the Ishvalian leadership doesn’t trust us, and they don’t want to be involved in the reconstructions. I’m not sure how you plan to overcome that, sir.”

“Me neither, Fuery,” Mustang nods, hand that’s loosely holding the neck of his beer tilts the liquid back and forth in contemplation. “That’s a huge problem. Ideally, the money we secure should go to them, they should be the ones in charge of rebuilding their homes the way they see fit. If they are not in charge, that means we are an imposition. I cannot afford that. However, we cannot legally distribute the funds without directly hiring those who we know can do the rebuilding, architects and whatnot.”

“So, we really need them to cooperate.” Havoc deeply inhales the smoke of his cigarette. A satisfied sigh follows. “Gonna be tricky. Any more meetings for next week, chief?”

“Yeah, they are willing to talk but we don’t manage to come to an agreement. The elders—they know me. They remember me.” Mustang’s brow wrinkles in disdain, perhaps for himself. “My identity does not really help the case, I’m afraid.”

“Ishlana seemed surprisingly cooperative,” Hawkeye adds thoughtfully. “Even though she remembers you.”

Healer Ishlana is an old woman, wrinkled like a raisin, and she is the de facto leader of the elders. She has seen a lot. She is wise and nurturing, therefore is given a great deal of respect from her people. During the war, she served as a healer and she has personally treated victims of the Flame Alchemist. Her eyes glitter with good humor most of the time, and she doesn’t seem to outright dislike Roy Mustang for who he is, nor is she outright suspicious like many others, but she is dry, unyielding, and doesn’t reveal her cards to them.

“I mean, who doesn’t remember the Hero of Ishval?” Rebecca lifts her arms as she poses the rhetorical question. “You didn’t anticipate all this before we came here, chief?”

“Lieutenant Catalina,” Hawkeye shakes her head disapprovingly. “Please.”

The shadow on Mustang’s face lifts, amused by how quickly Rebecca has picked up Havoc’s mannerisms when it comes to addressing him. As much as he is still troubled by his murderous past, he can not shy away responsibility for his own actions. Finally doing something to right some of his wrongs though, empowers him. The fact that Hawkeye comes to his aid and confronts her friend is flattering, and it successfully diverts his attention from the triggering title he is cursed with.

“It’s okay, Captain,” he waves his hand at Hawkeye. “She’s right, you know. In any case, it just means we will have to work hard and do our best. I’m fortunate to have the best team in Amestris by my side in this endeavor.”

“Thanks, sir,” Breda looks so damn satisfied. Mustang wonders if he should praise his team more if it makes them so happy. “We gotta do what you gotta do. Can we stop talking about work now, sir?”

“Alright, alright.” Mustang busies himself with the rest of his drink, and half-heartedly listens to Fuery who immediately begins to chatter about the latest gadget he’s been tinkering with. He then glances at Hawkeye who, unsurprisingly, has been watching him from under her eyelashes.

“What now?” he calls her out. Hawkeye seems a bit embarrassed for a second, then she offers a smile.

“Nothing, sir. You’ve done well this week. Good job.”

She must have no idea just how precious her approval is to him. He puts on the confident grin, but his eyes are closed – a typical façade move, he can’t afford to show just how much her words mean to her – and he leans back a little.

“I’m just getting the ball rolling, nothing more. All this land needs is some tender love and care, and it will flourish. You could say that I’m the best man when it comes to love and care, isn’t that right, Lieutenant?” He loves teasing her when they are all business. He knows fully well she is going to push it back as if she didn’t care. He knows fully well that she does care.

“Inappropriate, sir.”

Mustang smirks at this familiar dynamism. Hawkeye’s voice is neutral, and she doesn’t look at him, but after all these years he can tell she is amused.

“She is a Captain now, not a Lieutenant!” Ever the best friend, Becky comes to Hawkeye’s defense. Mustang didn’t expect this interruption in their interaction. Becky is apparently just as protective as his would be if their roles were reversed.

“Shit, sorry Captain.” Mustang scratches the back of his neck. “Old habits die hard, huh?”

“It’s quite alright, sir.” Hawkeye gives a warm smile, and his heart buzzes. She is definitely more generous with her smiles now that there are no homunculi around. She is proper, no one could criticize her behavior, but those smiles are endearing. Sometime in the past Mustang often thought it would be enough if he could just see her smile, but now that he does, he just wants even more. Now he wants to hear her noiseless chuckles and feel her soft hand on his elbow. Or anywhere, really. He’s not picky.

“Soon enough I will give you all a run for your money, trying to keep up with my new ranks as I climb the ladder,” Mustang retorts smugly, but he knows Hawkeye will be able to hear the promise in his voice.

~~~

Third week in the job, he faces an assassination attempt.

It was a poor job, really. A minor explosion shook a deserted, thankfully uninhabited area. Mustang led his team there himself. As soon as he stepped out of the car, a middle-aged man with red eyes shot him from the ravaged remains of a building. Fortunately for the Colonel, it was a clumsy shot. Grazed his shoulder, nothing more.

“Don’t shoot back,” he barked at Captain Hawkeye who was trying to find an angle through which she can get back at the attacker through the window. “Catch him alive.”

“Roger. Now stand back, sir.” Hawkeye took a quick look at his bleeding shoulder jaw locked in a grim expression. Despite the worried shadows on her face, she didn’t even flinch; once she saw that there were no signs of a bullet within Roy Mustang’s body, she brought her focus back to the present danger. She is undoubtedly a warrior, he thought with an odd sense of pride. She can prioritize, that’s for sure.

“Looks like you’ll need a medic, chief,” Becky asserted.

“Not this again,” Mustang growled, his delight from Hawkeye gone in an instant, but the wound was unpleasant enough that he didn’t push himself. His team managed to capture the culprit with non-lethal methods. Hawkeye led the assailant away to handle the paperwork and to take him into custody. Rebecca Catalina escorted Mustang to the medic, and now they are sitting together in the medical room, Mustang in a hospital bed, Becky on a chair next to him. Mustang quietly endures as a young doctor attends to his wound. Meanwhile, Rebecca chatters.

“This was so anticlimactic,” she complains. “What a loser. He didn’t even know how to use a gun. At least Riza could’ve shot him. You’re sucha softie, Colonel! How’s the wound?”

“It’s fine. Where is she anyway?” Mustang misses Hawkeye, so he just can’t keep his mouth shut. She handled the situation with such expertise. She immediately picked up the unpleasant tasks that come with a raid like this, and Mustang knew that by the time he is back to work, he will have every relevant report on his desk, waiting for his signature, efficiently prepared by his precious Lieutenant. Captain.

“She said she would come as soon as she could. She is still in handling the custody, most likely. Those things can’t really be postponed, you know, unless you want to risk lawsuit.”

 _So, she will come._ Mustang feels better already.

“How long do I have to stay here?” he asks the room, hoping someone, preferably the doctor, will know the answer.

“It’s protocol to keep you here overnight,” the medic asserts. “It’s a bullet wound, after all. Do you feel any stinging sensations, now, Colonel Mustang? Anything unusual?”

Mustang shakes his head. “Only pain. I’ll be fine. Thank you.”

“Good. It’s all sutured and wrapped up. Stay still and it won’t even scar,” he offers him an encouraging smile and leaves the room. 

Rebecca gives him a sympathetic face.

“Want me to bring me your chess board?” she offers. Mustang is somewhat taken aback by her unexpected attentiveness.

“It would be nice, I appreciate it Catalina, but Hawkeye would tear your head off of your neck if you left me unattended.”

“Eesh, you’re right, chief.”

Silence.

“What will happen with the attacker?” she asks. Mustang sighs and stares out of the window.

“My thinking is to hand him back to the Ishvalians.” He hears Becky gasp in surprise. “It’s frustrating, isn’t it? But the gesture is so powerful. Amestris couldn’t hunt down the soldier who shot that child. We couldn’t serve them justice. Now they get to serve their own justice the way they see fit.”

“They will release him, you know that, sir.” Becky’s voice is unimpressed; in a stark difference from Hawkeye’s constantly neutral tone, Becky’s disapproval is clear as daylight.

“I do,” Mustang sighs. “I suppose I will have to be more cautious. But I know this is strategically the best step. Nothing takes away the sweetness of revenge more than being pardoned by the man you’ve sought to kill.”

“Well said, Colonel.”

Mustang is proud of the zero reaction he has given to the appearance of Captain Riza Hawkeye. Seems like he can discipline his body after all.

“I take it from here, Becky,” Hawkeye says. Her fatigue is palpable, not only in her stiff posture but in the way she doesn’t bother addressing Rebecca officially. “Can you please take my dog on a walk? I’m concerned for him. His leash and collar are on the wall by the door. You don’t have to feed him; I’ll take care of that later.”

“Yeah, no problem, I already said I would,” Becky stands up and stretches. “Can I give him snacks?”

“Of course. Cheese or whatever, no carbohydrates.”

“Yes Captain.” Despite the humoring way she calls her friend Captain when they are discussing dog care rather than work, Rebecca’s tone is serious. She noticeably wants the best for her friend, and Hawkeye gives her a grateful smile. “Feel better Colonel! I leave you in the most capable hands.”

 _I definitely feel better with you around,_ Mustang thinks when he finally turns to look at Hawkeye. Despite her obvious exhaustion, she salutes him shortly. As the evening approaches, a couple strands escape from her orderly hair, and Mustang longs to brush them out of her face.

“Please, Captain. Make yourself comfortable,” he gestures on the chair that Becky left unoccupied. Hawkeye sits. Her hands are in her lap, and her eyes don’t meet his. “All good with the culprit?”

“Yes, sir. He is detained for now. I’ve finished the admin; it’ll be on your desk by tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Hawkeye. Your hard work is appreciated.” He wishes she looked up. He looks at her sturdy posture. “So, I take it you overheard my conversation with Lieutenant Catalina?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to pry.” Pause. “Though, I suppose it would be wise if you discussed your strategic decisions in a more secure setting, sir.”

“What do you think, then?”

“I think,” she starts, her voice is even, and she stares out on the window, gazing at the dark sky of the Ishvalan night, “that we have to be extra cautious from now on. I must admit I have let my guard down. After what happened in Central, I felt like we were away from the nightmares, from the terror. The reconstruction is difficult, but in entirely different ways. It was a mistake on my side that allowed you to be hurt. This attempt was weak. Unorganized. We are trained to be able to handle much worse attacks. The fact that you are wounded at all is my fault, and for that, I am sorry.”

“That’s… that’s not what I asked your opinion on, Lieutenant.” For anyone else, it would have sounded dismissive. But he knows she will be able to hear the softness with which he breathes Lieutenant. He knows they share the same work ethic; for him, it’s about changing the country, and for her, it’s about protecting him. He knows, because of this, that it’s nigh impossible to convince her that she, in fact, has not made a mistake. He waits for her to say something, but she is fixated on the sky. The way she ignores his prompt is bordering on insubordinate.

“Are you alright?” he asks finally, when he can’t take her silence anymore. She sighs then, and finally glances at him. He can hardly take the mortified face she wears.

“Yes, Colonel. To answer your question, I think the decision you made about the culprit is the right one, sir.”

“Stop that,” he commands suddenly. He can’t take her look of shame when she is so flawless in every way, when she has been so good to him, _again,_ like she always is. He can’t suffer the idea of Hawkeye sitting there next to him all night, wallowing in guilt, reflecting on whatever self deprecating memories her mind will throw at her, when his biggest dream is to make her proud. It cannot happen.

“What?” She is so surprised at his strong, demanding tone that she even forgets her manners.

“Stop castigating yourself. This was such a minor case. Sure, we’ll be more careful next time. Hell, if you want, I promise I’ll stay back next time until you give me the green light. But I’m fine now and we can’t change what happens, so, just stop. That’s a fucking order, Lieutenant.”

“Language, sir.” She doesn’t look at him again, but he knows that her face is imperceptibly brighter, and that’s enough. 

“I order you,” he insists. “Look at me, Hawkeye.”

He is surprised when she does. He is surprised that after all these years she can still take his breath away. 

“You can’t afford to lose your focus, Lieutenant,” he says. From anyone else, it would sound harsh, but he’s been speaking this language with her for years now. There is nothing more important in Riza Hawkeye’s integrity than the promise she made for him; reminding her of that always snaps her out of it. “I need a bodyguard now more than ever. Will you stay sharp?”

I need you now more than ever. He knows she will hear that. She only needs one look at his face to see his soul bared for her.

She breathes in.

She breathes out.

_It’s so good to hear her breathing, come to think of it, there was a time when I wasn’t sure I would hear it anymore._

“Yes, sir.”

He is relieved.

~~~

Rebecca Catalina was correct. The Ishvali people decided against charging Mustang’s attacker. The Ishvali leadership told Mustang that he had been a widower who lost his entire family in The Ishvalan War of Extermination. The Colonel accepted this and didn’t push the issue further. Personally it didn’t bother him. Professionally, on the other hand, he was also increasingly concerned about just how much he can appease the people of Ishval without the Amestrian soldiers making a noise about his softness. The edge of the knife he was balancing on was sharp and perilous.

A breakthrough hasn’t arrived for two more months. In that time, Mustang got highly familiar with the religious elite of Ishval. Fortunately for him, their religion encourages conversion, so when he starts to show up at their religious ceremonies, he is seen as a repentant soul not a hostile intruder. Little do they know that he really is a repentant soul. He learns a lot about the Ishvali religion, and the religious leaders, sensing his genuine curiosity, tell him a lot about their theology. Mustang finds himself babbling to Hawkeye about Ishvali religious rituals while she drives his car.

Still, it’s not enough. His efforts matter but so does his past, and there is still little cooperation from the Ishvali leadership. Healer Ishlana drops references to the war at their meetings so easily and so frequently as if they were auxiliary verbs. Mustang wonders what else he could do. He wonders about how he could remove his identity from the picture. He wouldn’t mind if he wasn’t the one to come to an agreement with the Ishvali leadership, but there is no experienced soldier on the Amestrian side who doesn’t suffer from the same PR problem he does. They have all been to Ishval. They may have killed less people, they might be less iconic, but they were there, and the Ishvalians are no fools. They are at an impasse.

Then, he finally receives a phone call.

“Hawkeye,” he barks at her. She raises an eyebrow at his impatient tone but responds anyway. “Am I free at 5pm today?”

“You are, sir,” she responds. “Will you need time for something?”

“Yes. And you’re coming with me.”

Hawkeye drives to the railway station. Mustang is tense and, unusually for him, he didn’t share whom they are meeting. Hawkeye doesn’t ask. It’s one of those strategic moments when he is lost in thought and he appreciates peace.

The train is delayed. Mustang sits on a bench; he is nervously tapping his foot against the dirty tiles. Hawkeye stands behind him, totally still, only her eyes are on patrol.

“Are we expecting someone hostile to arrive, sir?” she finally asks. “You seem awfully uptight.”

“Do I? I have to work on my body language then.” Mustang breathes in and out, then offers Hawkeye one of his fake confident smiles. “Better?”

“Not really, sir.”

“Thanks Lieutenant,” Mustang scoffs and goes back to the nervous tapping. “Always so kind. No, we are not about to face hostile forces. You probably won’t need to shoot anyone. Relax.”

“Probably is not a good enough reason for me to relax, you know that, Colonel.”

“Heh. Indeed, I do. Come on, they’re here.”

The brakes of the train screech. Not many people travel to Ishval, so Hawkeye soon detects the two familiar faces in the sparse crowd. Mustang, shedding all his previous nervousness, saunters towards them and greets them in his impeccable style. 

“Hello Major Miles. Hello Scar.”

Hawkeye nods at both men. Scar looks just as neutral if not guarded as she does, but Miles wears a friendly smile.

“We are happy to be home, Colonel Roy Mustang.”

Their presence improves the political stalemate almost miraculously.

Scar and Mustang have a surprising amount of guilt and self-loathing in common. They attend the religious rituals together. They are both outsiders, but Scar is less so, and when the Ishvali people perceive the degree of camaraderie between them, Mustang’s presence at the religious events becomes much more appreciated than before. Healer Ishlana now acknowledges his presence in the temple, and he is allowed to stay and witness those rituals that are not meant for external eyes. More importantly, Miles now attends every strategic meeting. Mustang allows him to lead many of them. The Ishvali leadership is wary – they call Miles a traitor sometimes – but Miles speaks their language, understands their culture, and empathizes with their concerns.His unique perspective of both an Ishvalian and man of the military is unparalleled. He manages to translate such cultural concepts to Mustang that prevented various agreements from coming to pass. Mustang in turn lets him have a final say in decisions way beyond the Major’s charge. The Colonel knows it’s risky because the responsibility is ultimately his, but the Ishvali leadership notices this shift, and they are appreciative.

Finally, the Ishvali executive teams are set. They are ready to receive the grants Mustang and his team have secured for them. The rebuilding begins. Soon, the entire region is bounding with the noises of construction.

Mustang sighs. Olivier Mira Armstrong was right: Major Miles is invaluable. And yet, as he looks at Captain Hawkeye who dutifully focuses on the documents on her desk, oblivious to his gaze, he also knows he couldn’t have done this without her.

He is not sure if it is a good idea, but he scribbles ‘Thank you. -Col. M.’ on a note and seals it in an envelope.

“First Sergeant, if you have a second? Can you please have this sent to Fort Briggs to Major General Armstrong?”


End file.
